“The Mister isn’t as psycho as General Hansen,” Nasta said. “He keeps his word most times.”

  “Still, you’re underground and he knows it,” Clay said. “He’s not a fan.”

  “He sees us as a nuisance, not as a threat,” Nasta said and shrugged. “Which is true for the most part. But now you’re here and can fight for us in the tournament.”

  “Yeah, about that…” Clay said and scrunched up his face in a lame look of apology. “I’m going to pass on the tournament. I stopped only to make sure you were okay and to say goodbye. Thank you for saving me and nursing me back to health.”

  “Goodbye?” Firoa snapped. “You lousy bastard.”

  “Fi. Hush,” Nasta said. The look in her eyes told Clay she was thinking the same thing.

  “I am sorry, but I have a chance to leave now, so I am going to take it,” Clay said. “I have a long, long journey ahead of me and I can’t afford distractions.”

  “Distractions? Is that what I am?” Nasta asked.

  “We,” Firoa said. “You mean we.”

  “We,” Nasta said and gave Clay a weak smile. “That’s what I meant.”

  “I… uh…” Clay stuttered and rubbed at his head. “Yeah, listen, Nasta, like I said, I appreciate what you all did for me, but as far as I’m concerned, we are even.”

  “The comunistas have already entered you,” Nasta said. “If you don’t fight for them, then they’ll hold us accountable. We can’t afford a rift with the comunistas, Clay. You have to understand that you are our only hope.”

  “Please, stop saying that. You are capable people all on your own,” Clay said and nodded at Firoa. “I think Firoa here could win the tournament with her bad attitude alone.”

  “This isn’t a joke,” Nasta snapped.

  “I know,” Clay replied. “And it isn’t my problem either. I already ran into the comunistas. I told them the same thing I’m going to tell you. I am out of here. I have my own life and my own agenda, Nasta. I barely know you people. I barely know you.”

  Nasta grabbed his face and gave him a huge kiss. Clay resisted at first, then eased into it. Firoa sighed and grumbled behind them as their mouths worked against each other.

  “Get a cave,” Firoa muttered.

  When they finally pulled away from each other, Nasta looked up at Clay expectantly.

  “That was nice,” Clay said. “And you make a good argument. Your lips are very persuasive. But they are just lips. There are lots of lips out in the world, but I only have one life. I can’t fight for you. I’m sorry.”

  The slap was hard, fast, and not unexpected. Clay would have been lying to himself if he said he hadn’t been in that exact same position before. It was a major reason he was getting out of there as fast as possible.

  “You are an honorless bastard,” Nasta said, backing up to Firoa’s side.

  “Want me to blow his ass way?” Firoa asked, raising one of the scatter guns.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Gibbons called over the loudspeakers. “You pull that trigger and I stomp your ass, lady.”

  Firoa looked up in alarm and then shook her head. “Whatever.”

  “Is that Gibbons?” Nasta asked. “Maybe he’d fight for us.”

  “No can do, chica,” Gibbons said. “Clay is the bossman of this operation. I’m just the hired help.”

  “I’m sorry,” Clay said as he backed up to the mech’s open palm. “I truly am. Believe me, I wish things could be different.”

  “Kiss my ass,” Nasta said and spun on her heel. She stomped to the roller’s door and yanked it open. “Fi, get in. Let this coward get on with his life. We don’t need him.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying since we found his ass,” Firoa said. She tucked a scatter gun under her arm and flipped Clay off. “See ya, loser.”

  Firoa got into the driver’s side, started the roller up, and spun it around, spitting dust and grit back at Clay. He waved the dust out of his face, then crawled onto the mech’s palm.

  “You really know how to make friends, man,” Gibbons said as he lifted Clay back to the cockpit.

  “Shut up and walk, punk ass,” Clay said, settling back into his seat.

  They did.

  25

  Forty minutes went by before Gibbons cleared his virtual throat.

  “Oh, for god’s sake!” Clay snapped. “What now?”

  “We’re being followed,” Gibbons said. “Couple of mechs and several heavy rollers. Big guns.”

  “The Mister?” Clay asked.

  “Nope, different markings on the mechs and rollers,” Gibbons said. “Oh, and now we’re being hailed.”

  “Up on the screen,” Clay said.

  General Hansen’s face appeared.

  “Mr. MacAulay,” Hansen said, her features failing at hiding the rage that threatened to boil over. “You are trespassing. I am within my rights to blow you back to Hell.”

  “Back to Hell?” Clay asked. “You assume that’s where I came from.”

  “We both know you are deceitful, murdering demon,” Hansen snarled. “You killed the Captain in cold blood.”

  “Nope, pretty sure her blood was boiling hot at the end,” Clay said. “Fire will do that to a human body.”

  “Stop taunting her,” Gibbons warned. “The mechs are changing direction and on an intercept trajectory.”

  “I have it on good authority that your mech no longer has armaments,” Hansen said. “One on one, you may be able to take one of my mechs, but not two on one. Especially since my rollers will blast you from the earth if you even look like you are winning.”

  “Not gonna worry about winning because I’m not gonna fight your mechs, you crazy bitch,” Clay said. “We are getting the hell out of here. Like I keep telling every damn person in this piece of shit territory! I’m not fighting for you, not fighting against you, not fighting at all! I am gone! So leave me the hell alone!”

  “You had better be telling the truth, Mr. MacAulay,” Hansen growled. “If I find out you plan on fighting in the tournament—”

  “Screw the tournament!” Clay yelled. “You people are messed up! I want nothing to do with any of you!”

  “Good,” Hansen said. “Then I shall let you pass.”

  “Thanks!” Clay shouted. “You are such a kind and giving soul!”

  He killed the com and slammed his fists on the armrests of his seat.

  “Double time us out of here, Gibbons!” Clay ordered. “I don’t care how much power it uses up! I want to be out of this territory before nightfall!”

  “Don’t bark at me, buddy boy,” Gibbons said. “And this territory is huge. Even at double time we would still be within its borders.”

  “Great. Just great,” Clay said. “Just promise me we don’t stop again. I want to sleep right through until we are somewhere else. Anything comes up and you get to handle it. I don’t care how you handle it, just handle it.”

  “You’re still barking,” Gibbons replied. “But I feel ya, pal. You get some sleep. I’ve got our backs from here until NorthAm.”

  “Thank you,” Clay said and settled back into his seat. “I just need some time to get my head on straight. I’m so freaking exhausted.”

  “Sleep away, my sweet baby boy,” Gibbons cooed.

  “Kiss my ass, Gibbons,” Clay replied, but with a smile.

  It was nice to be back home.

  He closed his eyes and drifted off.

  For about forty minutes.

  “Clay?” Gibbons whispered. “Hey, Clay? Sorry, man, but I think you do need to see this.”

  Clay stirred and held up both middle fingers.

  “Do you see these?” Clay asked. “Whoever is down there, show them this exact greeting. Then keep walking.”

  “Yeah, that was what I was going to do, but this guy is different than the other ones,” Gibbons said. “He’s signing some message to you and has a duffel bag at his feet that is filled with some serious hardware. Some of it I can’t even identify. I’d keep going, but he is signing like crazy and I can’t be a jerk to a deaf guy. That’s just not in my programming, man.”

  Clay sat up. “Signing? What is he saying?”

  Clay stood and walked to the hatch. He popped it open and looked down at Hank. Hank stopped signing and gave Clay a wave. Reluctantly, Clay waved back. Then Hank went back to signing.

  “He says you owe him a life debt,” Gibbons said. “Something about a showdown in Del Rado. He’s come to collect. This true, Clay?”

  “I guess that answers that question,” Clay muttered to himself then cleared his throat. “Yeah, I guess it is true.”

  Hank stopped signing and waited while Clay looked down at him. After a couple of minutes of silence, verbal and sign language, Clay motioned for Hank to climb on up. Hank gave him a thumbs up and lifted the duffel bag to his back. He strapped it on then hurried over to the rungs of the leg ladder.

  “I could give him a lift up,” Gibbons said.

  “I don’t want to make it too easy for the guy,” Clay said.

  Clay moved out of the way as Hank finally made it up to the cockpit. The man tossed in his duffel bag and then climbed over the lip and rested for a second before he started up with the signing.

  “He says he wants you to fight in the tournament for Nasta and the comunistas,” Gibbons translated. “Even if you lose, he’ll consider the life debt cleared.”

  “If I lose then I’m dead,” Clay said. “I doubt either the Mister or General Hansen will show mercy if one of their pilots takes us down.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” Gibbons said. A vid screen came to life and a pair of virtual hands started signing everything Gibbons said so Hank could keep up with the conversation. “There is no way these yokels can beat us.”

  “We are used to fighting with weapons,” Clay said.

  Hank signed a response.

  “He says you fought fine with a cargo mech,” Gibbons said. “Hey! Have you been cheating on me with other mechs?”

  “Only a couple, and they meant nothing to me,” Clay said. “You know you’re my special mech, Gibbons.”

  Hank laughed and signed a long message.

  “He says that I sound like a reasonable person and should talk some sense into you,” Gibbons said. “The guy has a point there. But we both know that whatever sense I try to talk, it ain’t getting through your thick skull.”

  “Listen, Hank, thanks for being my proxy in the showdown,” Clay said. “But I can’t fight in the tournament. I’ve told everyone else this and played it off like I was just being a dick. The truth is I am beat to hell, man. I have zero strength or stamina.”

  “That’s what you have me for, pal,” Gibbons said. “I can pick up the slack.”

  Hank repeated what Gibbons said.

  “No ganging up,” Clay snapped once Gibbons had translated. “My answer is still no.”

  “Hank says then the underground is done for and hundreds of slaves who are relying on them will die,” Gibbons said. “Damn. He’s going straight for the guilt trip on this one.”

  “Listen, man, I’ll give you a ride back to your caves, okay?” Clay said. “But that’s the end of my obligation to you. That’s it. End of story. Game over. Fini.”

  Hank signed with quick, sharp movements.

  “Oh, man, he is pissed,” Gibbons said. “I just learned like six new curse words in sign language.”

  “Do you want the ride or not?” Clay snapped.

  Hank stopped in the middle of his signing. He waved his hands at Clay and made to leave the cockpit. Then he stopped as he looked out at the landscape. Clay waited. He owed the guy time at least. When Hank turned back around, he nodded and then sat on the floor next to his duffel bag.

  “There’s a jump seat behind me,” Clay said. “Strap in. We’re going to run your ass full speed back home. Then I am so through with this nightmare territory.”

  Hank glared, but picked himself up and went to the jump seat, signing directions as he changed positions.

  “That’s going to take a few hours to reach,” Gibbons said. “It’ll be dark by the time we get back on the road, Clay.”

  “Then we walk in the dark,” Clay said. “I am not staying in this place another day.”

  Gibbons got them turned around, then set off at a fast trot. The cockpit began to rock violently at first before the motion stabilizers kicked in and the rocking turned into a smooth jostling.

  Two and a half hours later, they stood at the mesa where Clay had spent a good deal of time unconscious and recovering from a gunshot to the belly and a hunk of wood to the shoulder. The main cave was only a few meters above the mech’s cockpit, and Gibbons extended his hand to Hank as he climbed out of the hatch.

  The man turned and shook his head at Clay. That was all he said. A stern, sad head shake.

  “That’s life, man!” Clay called after him as Gibbons set Hank at the mouth of the main cave. Nasta and Firoa, plus a few other undergrounders, stood at the mouth of the cave and glared down at Clay. “Hey, there. Just dropping Hank off. Nothing more. Don’t read anything into this.”

  He was answered with a long line of middle fingers. Plus a couple of gobs of spit. Clay jumped back and avoided the expectorations.

  “Oh, yeah, I am so done,” Clay said and slammed the hatch closed. Or tried to. The piston regulators wouldn’t allow it to slam closed completely just in case a limb was not all the way in. Would suck to lose a hand in a fit of hatch-slamming anger.

  Clay slumped into his seat.

  “Do I need to say it?” Clay asked.

  “We won’t stop until we’re out of the territory,” Gibbons said. “Or until we need more power. Whichever comes first.”

  “Exactly,” Clay said.

  They were back on track in a couple of minutes. Clay closed his eyes.

  After a few minutes, Clay’s eyes popped open and he slammed his fist on the armrest of his seat.

  “What’s up?” Gibbons asked. “Scanners show the way is clear for kilometers. Everyone is leaving us alone.”

  “Not everyone,” Clay said. “I keep seeing Hank’s face. And those damn signing hands of his. I don’t even know sign language, but I can’t get his words out of my head.”

  Clay got up and opened a small panel, the same panel where he’d gotten the first aid kit from.

  “We got any sedatives in here?” Clay asked.

  “Nope,” Gibbons replied. “You used the last of those when we crossed into Southeast MexiCali.”

  “That was months ago,” Clay said. “Why haven’t we restocked?”

  “That’s just a dumb question,” Gibbons said. “You know why.”

  “Yeah, yeah, on the run and no time,” Clay said. “Story of our lives.”

  “What do you need sedatives for anyway?” Gibbons asked.

  “So I can get some sleep!” Clay snapped.

  “I don’t think drugs are the answer,” Gibbons said.

  “Shut up, Mom,” Clay growled. “Do we even have any liquor hidden somewhere? I just need something to get these freaking people out of my head.”

  “Hmmm, that sounds like you have unresolved issues that perhaps need some resolving,” Gibbons said. The mech slowed, slowed, then stopped. “I’m no expert on human psychology or emotions, but I am an expert on Clay MacAulay. You can try to drink your guilt away, my friend, you can try to leave this territory, but in the end it will always be with you.”

  Clay fumed. He closed his fists as rage poured through him. It was all just supposed to be a quick stop to find some grey and get the power cells full enough until they found some geothermal.

  It wasn’t supposed to be a nightmare rape romp with a psychotic despot. No matter how hot she happened to be.

  It wasn’t supposed to be a mission to save slaves.

  It wasn’t supposed to be a matching of wills with some old man and his mech champions.

  It sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be a “help the comunistas” campaign.

  But life had kicked Clay in the nuts, as it always did, and it turned into all of those things. All of them.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be this shit,” Clay said. “It wasn’t.”

  “I’m going out on a limb and saying I missed some inner dialogue,” Gibbons said. “Inner dialogue that told you that maybe you do owe that Hank guy a life debt and perhaps your conscience would be eased if you at least tried to fight in the tournament.”

  “I hate you,” Clay said. “You’re an idiot. A stupid, stupid idiot full of stupid.”

  “Well said, pal,” Gibbons replied and turned the mech around. “Back to the cave where we dropped Hank off?”

  “I hate you so much,” Clay said, but didn’t argue as Gibbons got them moving again, headed straight for the mesa they had just left only minutes before.

  “I bet they’re watching us now with binoculars and laughing,” Gibbons said. “I’d be laughing, if I was watching us.”

  “Shut up,” Clay said. “No more talking. That’s an order. We do this, then never speak of this hellhole again. Got it?”

  Gibbons followed the order and didn’t respond. Clay grumbled the entire way back.

  26

  Clay was not happy as he piloted his mech toward the staging grounds where the tournament was being held.

  It was a giant space, a massive circle a kilometer in diameter. Rollers of all sizes lined the staging ground as people set themselves in position to watch the spectacle. Workers in bright-orange hemp vests tried to direct the roller traffic, but folks tended to ignore the instructions as they scrambled to get the best parking spot with the best view.

  Clay was not happy as he slowed his mech, then brought it to full stop as a mech, painted orange across its chest, stepped in front of him, hand held out in the universal halt position.

  “You Clay MacAulay?” the mech’s pilot asked as his voice crackled over the com.

  “The one and only,” Clay sighed. “Let me guess, there’s a bunch of stuff I have to sign off on before we can get this disaster started.”

  “Yep,” was all the guy said as a console to Clay’s left came alive and several documents uploaded onto the screen. “Just put your thumb print in the space indicated, then go set yourself down over there.”